Loving to Hurt You
by Caty-Cross
Summary: Jealousy, possessiveness, anger, vengeance . . . We Hurt to Love, We Love to Hurt. You will be mine, and mine alone.  Contains boy x boy and abuse, you have been warned.
1. Chapter 1

This was created out of a roleplay I did with _Hannaadi88_

I was Scotland and she was England.

I hope you can all understand the Scottish dialect, I got help writing it from my Scottish friends so it should be pretty accurate :)

Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed roleplaying it.

Thank you _Hannaadi88_ for editing this, putting up with me when I whine and for all the fun times :)

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Warnings: Bad language, abuse, Scottish dialect (I have to live with it as the only English person in a Scottish community ^^') and general darkness

Disclaimer: Neither I nor _Hannaadi88_ own Axis Powers Hetalia. Or Scotland :D

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Loving To Hurt You

"...Alasdair?"

Arthur Kirkland lifted his gaze from the book, eyebrow raised in confusion. He had been in the process of setting down his teacup when his older brother stormed in, surprising the Englishman so that he dropped the delicate china. The expression on the other's face was anything but pleased. Arthur shivered- those looks never foretold good.

Alasdair's sea blue eyes flashed dangerously.

He was severely pissed off. All day, things had been happening to increase his anger until his famously short temper was _this close _to exploding. Glasgow had been playing up, Edinburgh's economy was _still_ falling . . . And everyone knew how close Scotland's economy was tied to England's.

He knew who to blame.

He strode to the window, staring out with eyes that danced like a tempest. His breathing was heavy, dripping with anger as he clenched the windowsill with both hands.

Taking a deep breath, Arthur stood up and stepped over the broken shards, walking over to his sibling. Hesitantly, he placed a hand on the other's shoulder. "Alasdair, are you all right?" he voiced his concern.

The hand on his shoulder was like the final straw and something inside Alasdair snapped.

He knocked Arthur's hand away and then grabbed his wrist, spinning the Englishman around and slipping his other arm around his waist. Now Alasdair had his back to the window, with Arthur's back fitting perfectly into the Scot's front.

"Am ah alrecht?" He drawled quietly into Arthur's ear, his whisky and cigarette breath dancing on the Englishman's soft skin. "Nae Arthur, aam nae alrecht"

The Brit gasped at the sudden change of positions, pressed close to the other's body. As usual, Alasdair's breath consisted of things Arthur both loved and hated- just like his brother.

It was awkward and wrong. Loving your brother in any way but the normal, familial affection was a sin. Especially if such a brother hurt you. Both mentally and physically. But just like a drug, no matter how bad it is for you, you can't stop wanting more.

And Arthur was addicted.

Shivering, he tried to pull away. "What is wrong, then?" he asked, trying to distract the Scotsman.

Arthur words neither distracted nor calmed the Scot. If anything, they made him worse. He squeezed the arm around Arthur's waist, pulling him closer and pinning both the Englishman's arms to his sides.

"Yoo're wrang Arthur," He growled dangerously. "Yoo're fallin' doon an' takin' me wi' ye. An aam sick o' et"

It was true, every fight, every scrap, every feckin' little drop in economy and Scotland was dragged down alongside of it.

"Falling? Hardly. It is not my fault that you are so dependent on both my economy and myself, Alasdair. Start finding other sources and support. Why do you think it is that I am the one holding us all together, not you?"

The moment those words left his mouth Arthur froze, biting his lip hard. He would have covered his mouth with his hand if that had been to his disposal. Unfortunately, it was not.

Even though it was the British nation that was on top of things on the outside, inside he was helpless against those he loved. He couldn't struggle, much the less shoot them. He knew that what he had said was only going to provoke his brother. Why, then, had he said it? He shut his eyes, bracing himself.

Alasdair's eyes blazed with a blue fire. _The wee, feckin' bastard!_

He grabbed Arthur's wrist and threw him onto the sofa, on his back. Then, hardly giving Arthur time to blink, he straddled the younger Nation's waist and looked down on him with that wild glint in his eyes.

"Yoo've gart sure Ah was kept dependent since William Wallace fought tae be rid ay yer feckin' King'! Naethin' changed did it, Arthur. Ye still tried tae rule under th' impression 'at Ah was daein' things mah way." He snapped, centuries of bottled up spite spilling forth like whisky down the throat.

Speaking of . . .

Alasdair reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small bottle of the 'Uisge Beatha', the 'Water of Life'. Pinning Arthur's wrists above his head with one large hand, he yanked out the stopper with his teeth and took a swig, feeling the warm, amber liquid slide smoothly down his throat, giving fuel to his anger.

Ah. So that was it. Arthur had a feeling that the other would bring up William Wallace. He always did. But arguing over him wouldn't be of any help now. If the Englishman was to avoid violence, he was going to have to sweeten his words and bite back the insults.

Alasdair drank. _Oh dear lord. _It was worse when the Scotsman was drunk. It was a shared trait of the Anglo siblings to loose themselves to drink and react harshly to whoever blocked their path. Arthur grimaced, wishing he could pull the bottle away from the other. But before he could do anything, it was flung aside, empty.

"Drinking isn't going to solve anything." The Brit snapped.

Alasdair's blue eyes, matching his flag, looked down on England. Disregarding Arthur's last remark about the alcohol-honestly, the Englishman should heed his own words- _he _drank enough. Alasdair leaned down, putting his hands either side of Arthur's face and drawled.

"Ah wanted freedom, but noo aam mair restricted than ever," His eyes flashed. "Ah cannae make a body move withit yer feckin', erse ay a government squealin' loch a virgin."

Sucking in his breath, the British personification felt his cheeks redden in anger.

"Rightfully so. Face the facts, Alasdair- you do not have what it takes to be an independent country. With all your drinking and nasty habits, you wouldn't be fit to own a thing, much less represent a nation. You may say you want freedom," the Englishman gazed up, stony faced, "but you are very comfortable with simply accepting the money I give you. Admit it."

He didn't care if he offended the Scotsman. It was the bloody truth, and both of them knew it.

Alasdair sat up and stared down at the Englishman. Not saying a word, his expression almost blank. Then a lopsided smirk played on his lips. His eyes glittered and he reached up to his neck, pulling off his tie and then snaking it around Arthur's wrists, tying it tightly.

"Shaa we plaey a gaem, ma wee hen?" He said mockingly.

He left Arthur and strode across the room. He went to the large cabinet in the corner and opened the glass doors, totally disregarding the flimsy lock placed upon it. The Scot pulled out a tall bottle of his most expensive, single malt whisky. He then walked slowly back to Arthur, his hips swaying dangerously as he did.

"Ah dae ken hoo much ye leik to play Arthur"

The moment Alasdair tied his hands together, the Englishman broke into a cold sweat. His mind was screaming bloody murder, every fiber in his body urging him to obey his instincts and get out of there. But something sinister, out of his command in the pit of his stomach, responded immensely to the mere action. Excitement was building up, and Arthur could do nothing about it.

Even so, the nation was able to sit up as his brother left him momentarily. He could have run-

_Fuck, why not?_

Standing up- staggering a bit as his balance was challenged by his bound arms- he rushed to the door, only to find that it was locked. The key was in the door, but he seemed unable to open it with his hands.

The footsteps behind him grew louder.

Alasdair's smirk grew. His little bunny was trying to escape hmm? Now he couldn't stand for _that. _He slowly, slowly wrapped his arms around Arthur from behind, the whisky bottle clinking on the Englishman's belt buckle.

Scotland ran his mouth up Arthur's neck, giving a little bite to the soft skin. "An' whaur dae ye hink yoo're aff tae?" He murmured, poking his tongue out to run along the English Nation's jaw line.

Arthur shivered, freezing when the Scotsman began demonstrating on his skin. The pale expanse was being ravished, marked and ruined. And he couldn't do anything about it.

Breath hitched in his throat, the Englishman tried not to show the other what his actions were doing to him. "O-out of here. Away from y-you..."

If only.

Alasdair chuckled softly, trailing his hot, wet, whisky tainted tongue over Arthur's ear and then burying his nose in the Englishman's blond hair. He breathed deeply, inhaling the English Nation's scent.

"Ye cannae gettae way frae me Arthur, ye gart sure ay 'at yerself" He muttered. "Ye cannae gettae way frae someain who's locked in th' sam cage as ye."

"Nngh..." Arthur was, for once, speechless. What the other had said was true enough- yet it made no sense to him. On the other hand, it explained everything. Why oh _why _did he have to face these contradictions every single day?

Instead, the Englishman simply sighed and hung his head. He gazed at the floor, glassy-eyed.

Alasdair grinned triumphantly, feeling an enormous sense of achievement that he had rendered the, usually eloquent, Arthur speechless. He breathed in deeply again, then moved his mouth down to nip at the soft curve of Arthur's ear.

"Open it" He commanded, lifting the whisky bottle to Arthur's mouth whilst keeping the English Nation crushed between himself and the door.

Crushed between punisher and locked salvation, the Englishman felt his shoulders droop. His posture slacked, seeing no reason to inspire awe in anyone at the moment. But he didn't want to drink, either. Arthur shut his mouth tightly, shaking his head violently.

Alasdair rolled his eyes and tutted at Arthur. "Tha willnae dae Arthur" He said in a tone of mock disappointment. He slipped his fingers into the Englishman's mouth, forcing his jaws apart and then shoving the bottle in.

"Open. It." He commanded again, his tone becoming harsh and military.

The fiery liquid gushed down Arthur's throat, chocking and burning him. Eyes opened wide, surprise evident in those green orbs (though, he really should have expected this). His gasps for breath only did him worse, helping the drink go down his windpipe as well.

His hands were useless. He couldn't move. He couldn't even make any noise, the Whiskey suffocating him. If Alasdair didn't stop soon, the Englishman would probably go limp in his arms.

Alasdair smirked, revealing snowy white, pointed teeth, then he pulled the bottle from Arthur's mouth and stepped back, leaving the Englishman to stand on his own. "Tut tut Arthur, lae some fur me eh?" He drawled before taking a long swig from the bottle, leaving only a quarter of the expensive stuff left.

Arthur gagged and fell forwards, hitting his head on the door and landing on his knees. He leaned forward, spitting out the rest of the stuff. He was already starting to feel a bit woozy. "B-bastard..." He mumbled, his forehead pressed against the firm wood.

A loud, harsh laugh forced it's way out of Alasdair's throat. It turned him right on to see Arthur on his knees, the Englishman cursing him only added to the twisted appeal.

"Puir baeby," He slurred, meandering over to Arthur and putting a hand on his head and threading his fingers gently through the dusty, blond locks. "Ye ken we're only jist startin' dorn't ye?"

A headache was brewing in the depth of Arthur's mind. It ravaged his thoughts, nothing coherent able to push through. All he knew was that he was on his knees. And that Alasdair was saying... something.

"We are?" he asked numbly, not sure if that was the attitude he was aiming for.

Tightening his fingers in Arthur's hair, Scotland dragged England to his feet until the blonde's feet were hardly touching the floor. "Ay coorse," He hissed in his ear. "We've still got a quarter bottle huir uv whisky, an ye will help me finish it, mah loove"

The Englishman gasped in pain as his hair was tugged at, brutally pulling him up. He was now facing the one he both loved and hated intensely. And apparently, he wanted him to finish the bottle. Sneaking a glance at it, Arthur groaned. He never would be able to do it. How could he get out of it?

He leaned forward, pressing his lips to the Scotsman's.

The kiss startled the Scot into being gentle. He kissed his brother deeply, running his tongue over Arthur's bottom lip before he realized what he was doing and frowned. He bit Arthur's lip sharply, pulling away with the rusty, salty taste of blood in his mouth.

"Whore" He said, pulling a leather clad hand back and slapping Arthur's cheek before dropping him to the floor.

Tears gathered at the edges of his eyes, on the verge of falling. Arthur fell to the floor, stunned. In silence, he gently brought his hands (as they were tied together, still) to his raw cheek, feeling it gently and pulling back with a wince as it stung.

He looked up at his older brother, a single tear streaking down his red cheek.

That single, glittering tear shook Alasdair. Deep deep down, he knew he was wrong, hurting Arthur. He was taking out all his frustrations on the one he _thought _was responsible. He was laying the blame on someone else when, by all rights, it should be him taking responsibility for his own mistakes.

Maybe he, (he clenched his fist around the bottle), he was wrong?

He sighed heavily and wearily, suddenly feeling much less like going through with this. He plonked himself down in front of Arthur, setting the bottle away and tilting his head at him. But he couldn't bring himself to speak, much less apologize.

Arthur, not sure what was happening, was just as shocked to see Alasdair dropping to his knees next to him as he had been when the other had slapped him.

And they said he was bipolar.

Licking his lips, the Englishman took in a deep breath. "Can you... untie me?"

Alasdair regarded Arthur with darkened eyes. Then he leaned forward and silently untied English Nation's wrists. As he pulled back, he placed an apologetic kiss on Arthur's reddened cheek, still not comfortable with apologizing through words. He then sat back, leaning on his palms and watching Arthur with a look like a tired wolf.

His hands freed, the Brit rubbed them attentively together, restoring the warmth that was lost when the blood flow was forced to a halt, never reaching the fingertips. Color was slowly restored to the pale digits.

Arthur, a smile on his lips, crawled on all fours to his older brother, curling up in his arms. His head nestled against the strong, firm chest. The Englishman sighed in content.

Alasdair looked down at the Englishman, curled up like a little kitten on his lap.

All his.

He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Arthur, holding him close and pressing a rare, gentle kiss to his forehead.

The island nation was touched. He was being _loved. _It reminded him of those long ago memories... painful, but fond memories.

"You know," he started absently, "Alfred used to cuddle up with me like this. Before he... before he left."

Scotland froze at the mention of America.

The obnoxious little brat, who hadn't gotten any better since he staged his 'Revolution' and ran off from Arthur. Still as loud, brash and plain stupid as ever. And yet, Arthur was still enamored with the boy.

Huh, Alasdair'd soon change that. Arthur was _his_, aaall his.

He pushed the Englishman out of his lap, making him land on his back and, once again, he straddled the blond. "Ah dinnae give a dahm aboot tha' brat" he growled.

"A-Alasdair?"

Arthur panicked. This contradicted the normal routine. They were supposed to continue cuddling, forgiving each other for brash words and violence. The Scotsman wasn't supposed to go violent again. What could have triggered his anger?

Oh. That was it. Alfred. The Englishman grinned smugly, the idea of his elder brother being jealous of the American bringing a smile to his face. "Oh, but you should. If not for him, _my _economy would be in ruins. And when mine goes down..." he looked up, catching his gaze, "you go too."

"Besides, he is very... _generous _while helping me out. To be frank, I quite enjoy our 'meetings'." He added with a dirty smirk. He wasn't sure why he was doing this. The other would most likely hurt him even more.

But perhaps he _wanted _Alasdair to be jealous?


	2. Chapter 2

Here is chapter two.

Hope you guys enjoy it and _Hannaadi88_ and I would like to say a **big** thank you to **everyone** who reviewed/favourited this story :)

Warnings: blood, gore(?), language, sort-of-incest

Disclaimer: Neither I nor _Hannaadi88_ own Hetalia . . . as much as we'd like to W

_~Enjoy~_

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The crack when Alasdair snapped should have been audible. It was bad enough that he was dependent on England, but to hear out loud that he was, by connection, dependant on the idiot America made his blood boil.

He was _generous, _was he? Arthur _enjoyed their meetings_ did he? Well, Alasdair would make sure that _everyone_ knew whom Arthur _really_ belonged to.

He reached inside his jacket and pulled out his Sgian Dubh, the dagger he kept on him at all times.

The British heart skipped a beat as his eyes caught sight of the silver blade. All color seemed to drain out of Arthur's face, leaving him with a sickly-pale complexion.

It never _ever _got to this. To weapons.

What was the Scotsman going to do with it, exactly? He wasn't going to... _use _it, right? He couldn't! "I-I'm sorry, Alasdair." His voice shook, "just t-think about it.."

Alasdair shook the dagger out of its sheath, sending it clattering across the room, and ran his tongue along it.

"Sorry ne'er did quite cut it." He said in a slightly hoarse voice. Then he pulled Arthur's tie off the Englishman, his own being lost somewhere, and, once again, tied his hands in front of him.

He then flipped Arthur onto his front, exposing his back. He lifted the green jacket and white shirt, revealing a long expanse of creamy, white skin, just waiting to be ruined.

He leaned down and placed a kiss between Arthur's shoulder blades.

Arthur was starting to get tired of being treated like a rag doll. Really- he was the United Kingdom! One would think that he had enough strength and will power to simply fend off a subordinate nation.

But, for all his wanting, there wasn't much actual doing. He was allowing Alasdair to do basically whatever he wished with his body. Sure, the Brit could put up a fight and probably be able to gain the upper hand if he wished for it. But then what? He didn't want to be in that awkward position of dominating his elder brother. It just wasn't _right._

So he may as well play along and try to avoid being killed. Good plan.

As he was flipped and stripped of his shirt, the Englishman shuddered. He never was comfortable with his body around others (though if he was completely honest with himself, he did look quite good), and it was the first time Alasdair had seen any sort of skin that garments usually hid.

All they had ever shared before were kisses and simple hugs. Arthur hoped the other wasn't craving anything else for the time. Mainly, _him._

A dark smirk pulled at Alasdair's mouth as he sat back up. He knew how to make Arthur, truly his. He held the knife tip so it gently sat on Arthur's perfect, flawless skin. Skin Alasdair wanted to see colored in red, like those fecking, precious roses of his.

All it took was a little push, and a single bead of perfect ruby red blood blossomed. Clinging onto Arthur's back before it slipped down, leaving a wine red trail as it did, fracturing the flawlessness.

He dragged the Sgian Dubh across Arthur's skin, pushing deeper, causing more and more of the sticky, slippery, sclaret blood to cover the snow-white skin. 'Alba' he carved, smirking as he did. He grabbed the bottle of whisky and took a gulp, a single drop splashing onto the English nation's open wounds.

A strangled cry passed Arthur's lips as the sharp metal first pierced his skin. The touch was almost unfelt by the Englishman at first. But as the blade was pushed in deeper, the Brit gasped and cried out, once again.

"Stop! Please! I-it hurts... Stop!"

He shut his eyes tightly, teeth tearing the delicate skin of his lips. His hands, bounded once more underneath him, curled into fists, nails digging into the skin. Anything to divert himself from the immense pain he was experiencing. He was being carved.

The tears ran freely, chocked sobs and mewls of pain evading his lips ever so often. But suddenly, the pain stopped. Had the other given up? He was about to breath out in relief when he felt a liquid substance fall on his back.

And then he burned. Like hell.

Arthur threw his head back, eyes widening in surprise horror. All he could see was white, a blinding heat coursing through his body.

"Oops" Alasdair said, not meaning it at all. Arthur was going to learn whom he belonged to, and he was going to learn the hard way. He put the bottle down and leaned over the fresh wounds. He ran his tongue through the bloody mess, kissing the letters. His lips and tongue stained with English blood.

Then he took the Sgian Dubh and began to carve again.

When he finished he tilted his head to look at his 'handiwork'. Then he frowned. All the glorious, beautiful, crimson blood was obscuring the most beautiful language he'd written in. He grabbed the whisky bottle again and took a last gulp before upending it over the bloody cuts.

The alcohol washed the blood away, leaving the swollen, irritated wounds clean. "Alba Gu Braith" He spoke in his own language, reading the words carved into Arthur's back.

"'Scotland Forever', noo they'll aw ken, fa ye pure belang tae" He muttered, leaning down and whispering it in Arthur's ear.

Hissing, Arthur trembled. The alcohol poured carelessly on his back continued to burn, sending pain waves coursing through his body. He was panting, voice hoarse with screaming and cries that fell on deaf ears. Eyes swollen and red from the endless stream of tears.

"W-what?"

The Englishman didn't understand. What had his brother done to him? What relevance did it have to those strange words, spoken in ancient times? Dread knotted through his stomach.

"Alasdair, what did you do?" He whispered fearfully.

"I've gart sure, a' fowk will ken fa ye belang tae" The Scotsman murmured. Then he took a handful of Arthur's hair again and hauled him to his feet. He dragged the English Nation across the room to the large mirror hanging on the wall.

He made Arthur turn his back to it then turn his head to see his back, where the bloody words, 'Alba Gu Braith', were carved.

"Coz pure, whaur woods ye be if it werenae fur us? Whaur woods 'Great Britain' be if it werenae fur Weels, fur wee Northern Irelain, fur me? Yoo'd be a body ay th' smallest, most insignificant coontries oan th' planit. Yer beloved America wooldnae swatch twice at ye, France woods hae ye servin' heem wi' a silver platter, Germany'd hae ye oan bended knee. Nae Arthur, yoo're only safe, cheers tae us, tae me." He part hissed part growled beside Arthur's ear, watching him in the mirror.

The Englishman's eyes grew wide as he stared at his reflection, gazing numbly at his bloody back. He could make out the words carved ruthlessly into his skin, the sight of them making the pain come back full force.

The other's words didn't help either.

"Y-you are mental! Sick! I do not belong to anyone, much less you!" Arthur spat, shivering in both anger and fatigue. "And the only reason I have the lot of you joined with me is since I captured you, remember? You, and half of the world!"

He pulled away, back to the mirror, refusing to acknowledge his scars.

Alasdair let go of Arthur and took a few steps away from him. "An' 'en ye lohst half th' warld, ye e'en lohst yer beloved Irelain. He cooldnae bide tae be rid ay ye." He said, his voice oddly detached, like he was speaking from miles away.

His expression was deadpan, blood dripped from his fingers and, when he ran a hand through his hair, he left a trail of blood across his forehead and in his flame red locks. He didn't seem to notice.

That was an under the belt blow, as long as Arthur was concerned. He never was fond of being reminded how he lost most of his colonies, being reduced from empire to kingdom. The mentioning of another of his brothers hurt as well.

Had they hated him so? They had every right to.

"At least I did own most of them at some point." The Englishman stated, voice quivering. He wrapped his arms around his chest unselfconsciously. "More than you have ever done. You never owned a thing. Not for long, in any case."

"Oh an' we ahl ken who put paed tae tha', dorn't we?" Alasdair said, bending at the waist and bowing elegantly and mockingly at Arthur.

"But ye only hae yerself tae blam fur it, _mah laird," _He added, straightening up, his voice bitter and mocking as he looked down on Arthur. "Ye tried tae be bigger than ye pure waur."

He tilted his head to one side as he looked at Arthur; it was a cold, calculating look, no warmth and no caring.

As cold and harsh as the Highlands.

The Englishman bit his lip, the truth of it stinging.

"What did you want me to do?" He questioned the other, glaring and backing slowly. "Be satisfied on my little Island? Stay subjected to torture by my elder siblings, who's first reaction to my existence was an urge to kill me?"

"But instead of letting you do that, I fought. I lived. Is that so wrong, Alasdair? You can't stand my being here, but you can't equally stand my socializing with others! What, in the name of god, is it you want me to do?" He repeated the initial question, throat burning.

Alasdair knew the words were true, he knew that, had he been in the Englishman's position, he would have done the same things.

"I . . ." He started, but before he could continue the door creaked open and a small figure poked his head around the wooden thing.

"Father?" A little child inquired in a soft Irish accent, Northern Irish to be exact. His wide, green eyes looked from Arthur, to Alasdair and back again. His mop of red-gold curls hung in his eyes and a dusting of pale orange freckles covered his nose and cheekbones. His features were thin, elfin almost, with a clearly defined jaw line.

His gaze was sharp as he tilted his head enquiringly at his 'father'. Alasdair could have groaned aloud. The wee boy just would walk in now, wouldn't he?


	3. Chapter 3

_~Enjoy~_

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At the sound of the door opening, Arthur turned around. In front of him stood one of his youngest 'children', if one could call them that. The lad represented North Ireland, part of the United Kingdom ever since he knew himself. The Englishman had named him Ardan, and loved the child to bits. He was the only one so far he had been able to raise without showing any signs of want for independence.

Arthur was always strong, always good, always fatherly and kind in front of the child. What would the other think of him now, shirtless and bloody all over?

"Ardan! What are you doing here?" The Englishman forced a smile.

Ardan looked at Arthur, his piercing, clear eyes staring at his father, taking in all the damage. His soul-searching look was interrupted when he blinked and looked over at Scotland.

"Oi 'eard screams" He said, in a soft, musical, Irish accent, picked up from his 'mother' Ireland. He sounded so much older than his six years- technically he was older- caused by watching 'Ma Oirland' and 'Fahther Englan' fight it out.

Being connected with the IRA didn't help the child's development either.

"Ma got ahngry" He finished, turning his gaze back to England as Alasdair shifted from foot to foot. He hoped Ireland wasn't seriously angry, Fionn had a temper like a forest fire and it consumed everything.

Sighing, Arthur sent a meaningful glance towards the Scotsman, warning him not to say anything. They would continue this another time.

"What exactly is he mad about, love?" He asked the young boy calmly, tenderly. If not for the... blood and gore, he would have embraced him. He really did need to clean himself up.

"Tell you what- uncle Alasdair will watch over you while I go change, savvy?" Before anyone could respond he dashed out of the room, leaving the two subordinates alone.

Ardan watched Arthur go with his deadpan expression and then turned his sharp gaze on Alasdair. Alasdair, on his part, meandered over to the sofa and collapsed on it, patting the seat next to him, gesturing for Ardan to join him.

Ardan glanced at the seat and then at Alasdair, not moving an inch.

"Whit has upsit yer maw, mah wee bairn?" He asked, throwing his arms over the back of the sofa and regarding Ardan with his calculating eye.

"Ma says, you're a bahd influence" The child said. Alasdair laughed. A sudden voice cut his expression of amusement short, though.

"So yer let 'imself git at yer again 'uh?" Said a stronger Irish accent as Arthur left to clean up.

Fionn was leaning on the wall, his face in shadows. His outline was dark, he was stepped outside of the light, but you could see his slim, almost feminine body and his height, he was an inch or two shorter than Arthur.

He took a step forwards and his sharp, elfin features were brought into sight. He too, like Ardan, had red-gold hair though Fionn's was more of a mop than curls. His eyes were, at the moment, a dark emerald and were known to switch between shades of green depending on his mood. By his frown, his folded arms and the darkness of his eyes, even America could have told that he was furious.

Arthur, in his bedroom, sighed as the warm water cascaded down his body, washing away the blood, the tears... the memories. He flinched at the thought of Ardan listening to his screams, his pleading.

Although the water did him good, the first few initial moments of the liquid running down his raw back forced him to bite back a harsh cry. He bit his chapped lower lip, willing the pain to withdraw. It did, eventually, yet the sting still stayed.

He wasn't sure what he was going to do with the scars. God knows it wasn't the first time he was attacked by a knife- he had enough marks on his body to prove that- but this was the first time someone bothered to carve that deep. With his experience, he knew that he needed to wash it with some alcohol, to clean the wound and dress it.

It then came to him with a shudder that he wouldn't need to apply any of the burning purifier on his back- the whiskey had done that. All he needed was someone to dress his wounds, less they reopen and bleed.

_Who should I ask?_

Arthur listed the options in his mind. He himself couldn't possibly do it, as he couldn't reach that certain patch of skin. Ardan was too young and probably wouldn't be able to do it right. Alasdair was the one who hurt him in the first place. Wales was away for the week on some diplomatic errand.

...All he had left, from immediate help, was Fionn.

Grimacing at the thought, the Englishman carefully dressed himself in casual jeans and Tee shirt, hissing as the fabric brushed against his wounds. He took out some cleaning appliances and returned to the main room, ready to wash away the blood.

A few minutes past, and finally the floor was spotless. He may not cook, but no one could say he wasn't good at cleaning. Beaming, he put the chemicals away, taking out a first aid box and entering the family room, which he had previously left.

"I see everyone is here..." he stated, blinking in confusion in the doorway.

Ardan turned at the sound of Arthur's voice and he walked over to him, hugging one of the English Nation's legs and looking out at the rest of the family. Alasdair was still lounging on the sofa, smirking at Ireland and smoking a cigarette. Fionn was frowning, his pretty face distorted by the angry look. His arms were folded and he was leaning on the end of the sofa.

"Aye, we're al' 'ere" Fionn spoke, his soft voice contrasting with his frown.

Smiling down fondly at the younger country, Arthur took in a deep breath and gently pulled away from the grip on his leg, making his way towards the frowning Irishman. There, with the first aid kit, he looked at his brother, cheeks reddening somewhat from the awkwardness of it all.

"Fionn, I was wondering if you could help me with something."

Fionn glanced from Arthur, to Alasdair and back again, still frowning. He figured out that it, once again, had to have been Scotland doing something stupid. He heaved an impatient sigh and grabbed Arthur's wrist, non-too gently either, and dragged him out of the family room and into a smaller room just off it, slamming the door shut behind them.

He pushed Arthur onto a chair and glared at him.

"Waat did he do this time?" He snapped as he looked down on Arthur.

The Englishman took in a sharp intake of breath as he was pushed roughly against the chair, his back coming into painful contact the wood. He shifted uncomfortably in the piece of furniture, avoiding the piercing Irish eyes.

"I, well, you see, he, well, to be blunt..."

Arthur hated these times. They way his brother looked down at him, treating him like a young child who didn't know any better, angered him, humiliated him. But, as he found with his brothers, he couldn't do much about it. Family dynamics, aside from the fact that the Englishman didn't own the other.

Which made it all more the worse that he couldn't even control those who he could claim ownership on. He was pathetic.

"Turn over" Fionn commanded, flourishing one hand at Arthur. But, when the English Nation didn't move fast enough for him, he grabbed Arthur's shoulders and turned him around himself. He pulled the shirt off over Arthur's head and then raised his eyebrows at the mess of the Englishman's back.

"Scotlan' Forever? De two av yer are such feckin' idiots" He said, grabbing the first aid kit and pulling out long, white bandages.

Mumbling incoherently, Arthur let himself be taken care of, wondering at how the other had known exactly what was wrong. Though he would usually deny it, there was a reason for Ardan to call Fionn 'Ma'. He had the instincts of one.

Through his fierce facade, the Irishman really did care. And he had a sort of motherly way to worry and fret over those he cared about. The Englishman wondered if he was counted among those people.

"T-thank you." He managed between bursts of pain. The other never was gentle.

Fionn tied off the bandage with a sharp tug, ignoring any pain-filled noises the Englishman cared to make. He then methodically packed away the first aid kit and dropped the wrappers into the bin.

He then took Arthur's shirt and, oddly gently, he put it over the Englishman's head and carefully set it over the wounds.

"Tha'll do" He mumbled, more to himself than to Arthur, and he turned his brother around again, a little more gently this time. "De two av yer are ridiculous an' you'll both be de others downfall, yer mark me words." He told Arthur, looking straight into his eyes.

Arthur sighed, turning to go.

"It probably will. But I love him Fionn- I _have _to forgive him. I _have _tohurt him. I _have _to hate him. It has always been that way."

"Oi nu," Fionn said after a moment's silence. He took Arthur's shoulders in his hands and gently turned the slightly taller Nation around. He leaned up and dropped a kiss on Arthur's forehead.

"But don't let it cost yer yer sanity" He finished.

A dangerous smile curved the Englishman's lips, turning his previously calm expression into a twisted smirk. "My sanity? From all people, one would think you would know the best what is with my sanity." He whispered in a low tone, hands gripping at the other's waist.

Fionn looked down, out of the corner of his eye, at the hands on his slim waist, gripping maybe a little too tightly. He looked back up into Arthur's eyes and saw the beginnings of the old madness stirring in their green, green depths.

"T'be sure, ah've been de keeper av it for so long" He murmured huskily, looking up at Arthur through his long, dark lashes.

"Then how about giving it back to me?"

The whole situation was crazy- he had just proclaimed his love for his _brother _and was now seducing his other sibling. Why was that? Indeed, there was something he lacked when it came to his mentality.

The pirate in him- the one that wanted to conquer, to capture, to own- was ebbing back slowly, bit by bit. The way his lips grazed the other's ear, a British leg pushing between two Irish ones was proof enough.

Why couldn't he own Ireland as well?


	4. Chapter 4

_This could probably have been split into two but I did the editing this time and I am far too lazy to do it ^^_

_Please excuse any mistakes, I do not have the patience Hannaadi88 has._

_~Enjoy~_

Disclaimer: We don't own :)

Warning: Fionn likes to bite...a lot ^^'

* * *

Fionn drew a deep breath when he felt Arthur's lips on his ear, Arthur's leg between his own.

He felt his body reacting, pushing against the Brit, grinding their hips together and releasing a shaking breath beside Arthur's ear.

They shouldn't be doing this.

_He_ shouldn't be doing this.

He was Ireland for God's sake, he was no longer a part of their family.

Maybe that's why he was doing it. Because he no longer belonged, he had no ties to them.

No consequences.

But, he'd thought that before . . . and that's how they ended up with Ardan.

The other's reaction only fuelled the Brit up, pushing forward until Fionn's back was flush against the wall, breathing heavily.

Arthur had never been completely, fully, loved. His own siblings had tried to kill him at first and still hurt him whenever they wish. His colonies kept leaving him, hating him. Francis, who took care of him when no one else did, had enough reasons to want to see the Englishman dead decades ago. The Asians probably despised him, invading along with the Western Powers.

All he craved was to feel wanted. And if to feel that way he had to seduce a resentful older brother... then so be it. Perhaps he will manage to keep him afterwards, have him join the rest of the angry lot. That was the burden of being a nation- one had to put their people's needs first before one's own.

The Englishman proceeded to bite the other's earlobe forcefully.

Fionn hissed sharply at the pain, moving his head back and exposing a creamy white expanse of neck.

With his back to the wall and Arthur pushing him from the front, there was no way he was getting away any time soon.

But did he want to?

He moved his hips against Arthur's again, almost feeling all his blood run south.

He knew what Arthur wanted. And it wasn't just sex.

He'd give it to him though, the sex. But he wouldn't give _himself. _

Ireland, was his. He loved the freedom too much to give it away now.

He'd fought for too long, killed too many, watched too many die, to even _consider_ giving up his beloved Ireland.

Arthur smirked, loving how needy Fionn looked. How much he needed _him_. And the Brit was all too willing to be of service.

He leaned forward, lips travelling from the other's ear to his neck, ravishing the skin wantonly. The love bites grew in number as he claimed each patch of skin as his own.

"You want this...?" He stated more than questioned lowly, yet leaving the question mark lingering in the air.

His fingers travelled southwards, unbuttoning the shirt slowly, seductively, allowing the tips to brush against the heated skin every so often.

"No," Fionn murmured hoarsely. He leaned forwards and kissed Arthur, deeply, passionately, angrily, biting the Englishman's bottom lip as he pulled away.

"Yer want it" He stated, his breathing irregular and the occasional moan escaping his lips. He trailed one hand down Arthur's chest and then tugged at his belt.

If they were going to do it, he'd rather sooner, than later. Get it over, done with, finished, so he could go on pretending he didn't care anymore.

Kissed deeply, Arthur couldn't stop thinking how strange it was for them to do this, after all this time. And how unfair it was that the Irishman wouldn't admit his obvious attraction and need for the younger nation.

He wasn't going to do anything until Fionn asked for it. _Begged _for it.

"No," he imitated the other, "_you _want this. And _you _will be begging me for it."

His fingers finally finished their previous task, travelling back up again to pinch a pert nipple.

Fionn hissed as he felt his body reacting to the pleasure.

"I won't . . ." He paused and sighed heavily. "I . . . _Jesus Christ_"

He hated his body for doing this but at the same time he wanted it.

But he wouldn't beg, he wouldn't beg like some _dog_.

He frowned, pulling Arthur closer by tugging the others belt, and he hissed in the English Nation's ear.

"I won't _ever _beg you for _anything. _I won't ever give myself to you freely"

"Very well, then."

Arthur untangled himself from the Irishman and pulled back, taking a few steps away from the other. His face was flushed, his body painfully erect, but his mind was set. He was going to profit out of this mess, more than simply physical content.

The United Kingdom was going to prove himself as the one who controlled his brothers, not the other way around. Just like it was supposed to be.

"I suppose, then, that you would rather skip this activity." And with as much dignity he could gather in his position, he turned away. But before opening the door, he turned his head and smiled coolly.

"Thank you, once again, for your assistance. I shall bid you farewell."

When Arthur moved away, Fionn found his legs wouldn't support himself and he slid down the wall.

"Oi already feckin' gave yer Ardan," He panted, his breathing heavy from the sudden change.

Arthur was asking for things he couldn't, _wouldn't_ give. How could he give up his most adored Ireland, just for a hot, lust filled night.

Though, he had to admit, the awkwardness below was getting highly uncomfortable right now. And a part of him _did_ want Arthur to want him. Instead of wanting that idiot Scotland.

A moment of weakness was all it took and he bowed his head, his face shielded by long red-gold hair.

"Don't go. . ." He muttered, unsure if Arthur heard it. Unsure if he _wanted_ Arthur to hear it.

The Englishman paused, taken aback. He hesitated at the door and turned around. "What?" He asked, tilting his head.

He was being evil. Evil, mean and immature. But he had to do this- for the sake of his lost pride. No more weak, feeble and hurt England. Long live Britannia!

The sight of his older brother sitting there, panting and needy, was tempting, though. He wouldn't wonder if his resolve broke soon..

Ireland squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fists, his hands shaking with the need.

This wasn't fair. This was not fair at all.

He was strong, he was independent, he was Ireland.

He could feel his people in his head, in his heart, screaming out their hatred of the English Nation.

So why did he feel like he wanted Arthur back, back in his arms, warm and heavy.

He opened his eyes and looked up at him, his expression both angry and slightly pleading.

"Don't make me say it again," He said, ignoring the pleading tone that cut into his angry one. "Yer 'eard it once"

Smirking, Arthur leaned his back against the wooden door. His arms crossed his chest, a bit shaky. He hoped the other wouldn't notice.

"Well then, what do you want me to do?" The question was innocent enough, but he knew that it was ruthless teasing. Part of him was screaming that it was wrong, that it was cruel. But another side was enjoying this. Enjoying being on top, for a change.

If looks could kill, Fionn's would. He glared daggers, axes and swords at the English Nation.

"You know what I want" He answered in a panting whisper. His hair was falling down his face, coming slowly loose from the leather band that held it back, strands of red-gold locks dancing in front of his face, the colour like golden treasure dripping with blood.

Oh he knew what he wanted, but his pride and independence prevented him from downright asking for it.

Letting out a breathless sigh, the Englishman walked over to the other, a grin plastered on his face.

Reaching Fionn, he grabbed his chin and forced the Irish head up, eyes forced to meet his. "What do you say...?"

His other hand returned to its previous excavation, undoing the buttons on his brother's pants.

Fionn's expression said he would very much like to bite that hand, like he had done several times during the fights.

But he didn't. He clenched his teeth together and glared up at Arthur through long, light eyelashes.

"Damn you," He growled.

Then, at the feel of his brother's hand at his buttons, he tried so hard not to moan. Damnit, he needed this.

"P-please?" He asked, hating himself for begging, hating Arthur for making him beg.

But he needed it, he needed this, he needed Arthur and by God, he wanted it.

"Very well." The Englishman practically purred, leaning forward to capture his brother's lips in a short, dominating kiss. In the meanwhile he felt his body fall gently to the floor, his kneecaps pressed onto the cold floor.

That did nothing to cool the heat inside him.

The British hand, finished with its task, delved forward into the other's briefs, gripping the needy member there. Amidst it all, Arthur wished he had worn his leather gloves- they were perfect for things like this.

Fionn's eyes opened wide and he shot forwards, his head in Arthur's shoulder. His hips bucked at the feel of his brother's hand on his over-sensitive area.

"Nnngh ah" He moaned against Arthur's skin. Some instinct told him to bite so he did, sinking his teeth into Arthur's soft skin, at the angle made by his neck and shoulder.

The metallic, tangy taste of blood filled his mouth.

His hand tightened over Fionn as the other sank his teeth into him, piercing the delicate skin. Arthur clenched his teeth tight, not letting any sound escape his lips. Fuck, it hurt. But the simple aspect of it was enough to send shivers down his spine.

"T-tasty?" He muttered, regaining his composure and completely removing the other's undergarments, eyes revelling in the site in front of him. It had been too long...

Fionn leaned against the wall and looked up at Arthur, one leg stretched out in front of him and his other knee tucked up beside his chin. His eyes were at half mast, emerald peeking through dusty eyelashes and his long hair tumbled around his shoulders.

Red blood dripped from the corner of his mouth as he panted, tiny moans adding to his heavy breathing.

He watched a thin trail of blood run down Arthur's neck and he gave a long, low, husky groan.

It had been _far_ too long since the last time.

The Englishman's shoulder stung, but the pain- like everything else- was blocked out. All he could feel was the pounding of his heart and the blood that ran swiftly through his veins, lower and lower...

Licking his lips, Arthur shot his hand out again, enveloping Fionn's twitching length in his palm. His fingers ran up and down the stimulated flesh before he started pumping, eyes that were glazed with lust staring intently into his older brother's.

Fionn couldn't help the moans and groans that tumbled from his mouth. His eyes went alternately wide and then closed as he leaned forwards, into Arthur, again. His hips lifted of their own accord, throwing himself into Arthur's hand.

He didn't realise until he tasted warm liquid again that he had bitten his lip.

Enjoying how the other writhed underneath him, Arthur groaned at the site. The golden-reddish hair loosening from their bounds and framing loosely their owner's face and his flushed cheeks gave him an even more feminine appearance. The pearly skin accented the red, with the exception of the occasional scar.

But that was what made the person in front of him so special.

Hand slowing a bit, yet continuing its rhythm, Arthur dipped his head and ran a skilful tongue over a faded scar, scarring the patch of skin over Fionn's stomach.

"Hhnngh" Fionn moaned as he felt Arthur's warm tongue run over his skin.

He put a hand up to Arthur's neck and felt the warm, sticky blood coat his fingers.

This was how they had always been, coated in blood no matter what they were doing, fighting or coupling.

He frowned and moved his hips towards Arthur, wanting the quicker friction, wanting the English Nation to speed up not slow down.

The Englishman chuckled softly onto Fionn's chest, sending vibrations through his lips. "Not so fast."

Pulling away, Arthur took the time to remove any remaining article of clothing either of them were wearing. It was when he resumed his position, suckling on the Irishman's neck enthusiastically, that he heard voices outside the door.

He froze.

Fionn froze on the spot, his eyes widening.

He was sure that was Ardan's voice.

If that Scottish bastard let Ardan in now, Fionn would kill him with his bare hands.

He clenched his hands, unconsciously digging his fingernails into Arthur's shoulder.

He found himself repeating over and over again, "No please, no please no"

It was no more than a simple 'leave me here for a moment' in a heavy Scottish accent, that Arthur understood and immediately was able to analyze the situation.

He was on the floor, having sex with Fionn. Alasdair was outside, sending Ardan (presumptively) away. He was probably going to walk in on them. Lovely.

The Englishman broke out into a cold sweat, all his courage and attitude lost in one moment when the prospect of his other brother finding out looming in a threatening manner over his head. He buried his face in the Irishman's chest, trembling. What was he going to do to him?

The door opened.

Moving faster than he probably had in a long time, Fionn leapt up and pulled the blanket from the back of a sofa and threw it over Arthur and at the same time, managed to drag his trousers back on.

All this, before Alasdair strode into the room, closing the door behind himself.

The Scot stopped and raked his gaze up and down Fionn's bare chest.

"Weel, weel, weel, whit dae we hae haur?" He drawled, stepping closer and closer to Fionn until the Irish Nation was forced against the back of the sofa.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Fionn replied, snapping a little.

Scotland smirked and leaned down close to the smaller man.

"Nae need tae snap, jist a question." He murmured before he connected their lips in a kiss.

Fionn surrendered himself to it for all of about, ten seconds. He frowned harshly and bit down sharply on Alasdair's lip, tearing the tender skin when the Scot moved quickly away.

It was all too fast, too sudden. Arthur found himself pinned to the cold floor, a blanket shielding him from Scottish eyes. His cheeks were flushed, and he tried to take control over his body.

After all, it would be highly embarrassing if someone were to lift the cloth and discover the buck naked Englishman.

He listened to the conversation until it died out. He was curious to know what had happened- even more so when he heard a howl of pain from the Scotsman- but he couldn't afford being found out.

Unfortunately, his body disagreed with him. The floor chilled him, and the dust looming there engulfed his nose. He had to sneeze. But he couldn't!

It was decided for him. A small sneeze escaped him, low but not enough to be ignored.

The tiny sneeze didn't go unnoticed. Alasdair raised both eyebrows, one hand at his lip, and then smirked at Fionn.

"Ye hiden' sumthen Fionn?" He asked.

Fionn's expression betrayed nothing, he had spent far too long trying to hide things. But Alasdair didn't need the Irishman's conformation. He'd already seen the blanket.

"Weel weel weel, wha' 'ave wee here?" He drawled, sauntering over and leaning down to gently lift the blanket slightly, enough to reveal Arthur's top half.

He whistled appreciatively and looked back at Fionn before looking down at Arthur again.

Fionn didn't move, he continued to stare at the opposite wall with his arms folded across his bare chest.

The Englishman always did appreciate fine colours. If he took the time to look at himself in the mirror at the time, he would clearly see the quick transition from sickly pale to morbid red in a matter of seconds.

He hated how the other's eyes scanned his upper form. He hated the predatory look in his gaze. He hated how he was forced to meet those eyes, lying on his back. What he hated even more was his own reaction.

The Brit sat up straight in a blink of an eye, crossing his arms across his chest protectively and blushing profusely. The cloth covered just the right amount of him to keep Arthur decent, but his luscious pale thighs showed all too clearly. Trembling, emerald eyes avoided the others.

He just hoped Fionn wouldn't get hurt. It was all his fault, after all. He didn't want the Irishman to see his downfall, his weakness. He didn't want to see the other's dainty form ruined. From his previous actions one may not have guessed, but Arthur loved his brother dearly. All of them.

Even the one he shook in terror from.

Alasdair took in all of Arthur's form with a hungry eye. Then he straightened up and held up his hands, shaking his head.

"Tsk tsk Fionn, keepin' aw thes frae me? Hoo coods ya?" He said, with a mocking tone of voice. He stopped shaking his head and grinned wolfishly at Fionn, his blue eyes flashing.

Fionn did move then. He turned his head to look at Alasdair, a look of pure disdain across his features.

"I-I am not some goods for sale, you know."

Arthur stood up, quickly tying the sheet around his waist as his pants were nowhere to be seen. He pushed by the Scotsman and headed towards his other brother, standing in front of him protectively.

"And he is not involved."

Alasdair smirked and leaned down until his face was level with Arthur's.

"Och Fionn's bin involved since day a body," He said, flicking his gaze up to the Irishman before looking back at Arthur. He smiled, which was even worse than his smirk, and patted Arthur condescendingly on the head.

"Nowmove aside wee a body an' lit th' older wee jimmies dae th' talkin'." He said, straightening up and looking over Arthur's head at Fionn.

Arthur's cheeks burnt with anger, the fire within him blazing through his eyes. He straightened his back and glared at the Scotsman.

"I am, if you have forgotten, the bloody United Kingdom. I am, do not forget, the one everyone knows. Everyone refers to. So I will _not_, under any circumstances, be talked to as a young child!"

The Scotsman, who was standing close to Fionn, pushed the Irishman into the back of the sofa and turned his head slowly to look at Arthur.

"I'll tahk tae ye as ah see fit" He drawled, putting one hand on Fionn's waist and glaring dangerously at Arthur.

"Y-you will bloody pay attention to me while I am talking!"

Arthur, despite his spoiled and childish behaviour, acted like the grown man he was. He wouldn't let the Scotsman take everything he worked for, everything he wanted. The scar on his back still burned dully, a painful reminder of what usually happened.

Not this time.

The Englishman rushed out of the room, reaching his own bedroom and put on some decent clothes. Then, hesitantly, he reached deep into his drawer and pulled out a shiny metal object. A gun.

N-not that he would actually use it. Of course not. He would just make a point with it... right?

He headed back into the other room and closed the door behind him. Slowly, he raised and aimed the weapon from the doorway, brows furrowed in concentration.

"Get away from him. He's _mine._" Arthur growled.

Alasdair turned slowly to face Arthur with his usual cocky grin on his face. But that faded when he saw the weapon in his brother's hands.

Then a nasty smirk traced its slow way across his mouth.

"Ur ye gonnae shoot me Arthur? Gan aheid, let's see if ye can dae it" He murmured dangerously.

Fionn blinked. This was a little unexpected. He frowned, unfolding his arms, and moved to step between them.

The Englishman's complexion paled a bit at Alasdair's words. He never had actually meant to use the godforsaken object. But now that he was _challenged _to do so and would be viewed as weak by the two others if he didn't... he never had meant for this to happen.

Then again, what did he expect?

As much as he wanted to, he couldn't. He couldn't shoot his sibling. He couldn't shoot one of the people he loved the most, in front of another that he shared the same sentiment with. And now that Fionn had stepped in between them...

"I-I..." Arthur's voice shook, and he cursed his body that couldn't support the gun as well as he wanted it to. His grip only tightened on the metal weapon, as if gripping to life itself. But his hand quivered. Just a bit.

"Ye cannae dae it, can ye?" Alasdair asked, a knowing smile on his face as he watched Arthur struggle. "E'en efter everythin' i've dain tae ye, ye still cannae dae it. Francis was reit, ye ur a coward"

His smile grew wider. He knew mentioning France's name was bound to get a _delicious_ reaction out of Arthur.

Fionn looked from one brother to another. This was ridiculous. They were, once again, going far too far. But he stayed between them, slightly to one side, ready to jump in if things went wrong.

Francis. The moment his name was mentioned, his strength seemed to be restored. If only to prove the bastard was wrong, he would go to the ends of the earth. But... wasn't killing someone a bit drastic? Not that he would let the other know of his true intentions.

He approached the Scotsman, pushing by Fionn and placing the weapon inches away from Alasdair's face. He tilted his head, an innocent expression laced by a smirk framing his face.

"What was that?" He asked lightly, "care to repeat that again, _Scotland_?"

Alasdair's smirked grew and became more feline. He leaned forward so the gun was point blank against his forehead.

"Francis. Was. Reit, ye ur a coward" He said, pronunciating each and every syllable, making sure Arthur heard him.

Fionn knew, then, that things were going to go too far. He stepped towards them, reaching out a hand to take Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur shrugged away violently the hand on his shoulder, not even bothering to glance sideways. His gaze was fixed on the Scotsman, eyes alight.

"So..." The Brit trailed the gun down the other's face, pausing at where the heart supposedly beat, "you are telling me that you, a strong and fearless nation, would be able to do it?"

His expression remained blank, but inside his heart was pounding. Given the chance, would Alasdair actually do it? Shoot and kill him without a second thought?

The smirk grew, if possible, even wider.

"Och Arthur, i've dain it sae mony times, Ah dornt min' them aw." He said, trailing one hand down Arthur's chest.

It was true. The amount of times Alasdair had fought Arthur. Scotland had fought England. Was uncountable. The amount of times Alasdair had stood over a fallen Arthur, gun/bow/sword in his hands, with English blood sprayed across his face.

And smirked at his fallen enemy.

Fionn raised, and then lowered, his hand. He watched the pair intently, but didn't make a move to step in.

You could have cut the tension with a knife.

Something stopped, time froze. Arthur felt all the blood drain from his face, taking a step back. His grip on the gun fell slack and it landed on the floor, clattering in the silent room.

"Fine, then." The Englishman stated, expression duller and blank as ever. He gestured towards the fallen weapon. "Let's see you do it."

Alasdair's expression flickered but his smirk was soon back in place. He leaned down slowly and lifted the gun into his hand.

Fionn's frown deepened. What the hell...?

The Scot straightened up and placed the gun, point blank against Arthur's temple.

The whole world seemed to have slowed down. Fionn tried to move forwards to stop the feckin' Scot from doing something seriously stupid, but the air seemed to have become like treacle, slowing him down.

Three heartbeats counting down. Bump bump, bump bump, bump bump.

Click.

Alasdair chuckled quietly and leaned forwards to whisper in Arthur's ear.

"Ah guess yoo're still a lucky wee bastard"

And he tossed the empty gun away and strode from the room.

All the while Arthur's expression remained empty, composed. Some part of his mind knew that the gun was empty- he himself had removed the bullets a while back. But a different part of him went numb with fear. Kind of like when you walk inside a horror house, or better yet- the London Dungeon. His newest attraction. You knew that everything wasn't real, yet you are scared, anyway.

As the Scotsman left the room, smiling, the Englishman remained frozen on the spot for a few moments before falling to his knees. He remained in a state of shock. Shock that Alasdair had dared to so. To try to kill him, without any reason or thought. The initial shock that he was still there, breathing.

The tears started pouring down.

Fionn sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair.

The pair of them were ridiculous.

He wandered over to Arthur and knelt beside him, pulling the Englishman into his arms.

"Stop your crying" He said softly. "Alasdair knew the gun was empty"

He gently rocked Arthur back and forth, letting the warm tears fall onto his bare chest.

Everything that he had held in for the past day came out in the form of broken sobs, pearl-like tears. Arthur wrapped his arms around his older brother, enjoying the sense of security he provided.

But his words did nothing for him. He knew they were all lies, lies to make him feel better. Alasdair was right- he had shot the Englishman so many times before- though, never fatal, that he should have known it didn't mean much to him. That he didn't mean much to him.

To nobody.

He pulled away from the Irishman's grasp, scanning the other's features carefully. "Why are you comforting me? The one who tries to own you, again and again? The one you hate, who took away some of your land? What is in this for you?"

The Brit stood up, an icy expression replacing his tearful one. "I do not care, at any rate. Go on, plot with him and the rest of the world to kill me and tear me down. But I will not, _will not, _ever be taken down. Never!"

And with that, he left through the door, not bothering to close it after him.

Fionn watched him go, his eyes glowing shamrock green.

"Because you're my little brother" He whispered to the empty room.

As Arthur breezed past him, Ardan lost his precarious balance on his toddler's feet and landed on the floor with a little squeak. He looked up at Arthur's expression.

He didn't understand it really, but he knew that his 'father' was upset.

"Father?" He asked in a small voice.

Arthur paused, not noticing the small child. He immediately regretted his obliviousness and picked up the small thing, hugging Ardan close to his chest.

"Are you alright?" He asked tenderly, forgetting for a moment his anger. If someone out there loved him, it would be the small being in his arms.

...but so he had thought about America. A small child, bright and warm. Never to leave him.

He hugged Ardan even closer, unaware if he was hurting the child or not.

Ardan nodded against Arthur's chest, snuggling close to the Englishman.

He was squished against his Father when he hugged him close, but he wasn't really uncomfortable. He took any moment he could get with Arthur, usually he was left alone in this giant, cold house, and his father was always warm.

Humming, the Englishman rocked slightly the Irish child in his arms, comforting more than one. His hand stroked the others back softly, lulling him into secure slumber.

Arthur made his way towards Ardan's room when he noticed someone come about the corner.

Alasdair.

Biting his lip and lifting his chin, the Brit continued walking, passing by the Scotsman without a bit of recognition.

Alasdair continued walking past but, at the last moment, he snagged Arthur's waist with one arm and spun him around to face him.

Ardan, sleeping peacefully in Arthur's arms, gave a snuffly, sleepy protest at being moved so quickly, but he didn't wake.

The Brit let out a gasp of surprise, turned to face the other. From all the things he wanted to avoid...

"Let go of me." He stated more than commanded, glaring coolly at the Scotsman. His chin rested atop of Ardan's red hair, trying to find reassurance within it.

"No" Alasdair murmured, stepping closer to Arthur and pushing the child in his arms against the English Nation's chest.

Ardan's tiny fist clenched in Arthur's shirt.

Alasdair leaned his head closer until his lips brushed Arthur's ear.

"Ah kent, the gun wos empty" He murmured in a deep, hoarse voice.

Arthur tried even harder to pull away- it wasn't for his own sake, but for Ardan's-, but the other's grip on his waist was too strong. His temper flared at the heavily accented words, jerking even more in the other's arms.

"Yes, of course you did." He acknowledged sarcastically. "Let. me. go!"

Alasdair tightened his grip, not realising he was squishing the child he was so busy focusing on Arthur.

"Nae until ye listen! Arthur!" He exclaimed.

Ardan gave a small squeak and shifted in Arthur's arms, causing Alasdair to look down at him and back off a little.

"Pit th'pipsqueak tae bed an' listen tae me" He said, a little quieter.

Breathing out in relief, the Englishman shot the other one final look and hurried away, muttering a 'you don't order me around'. He reached Ardan's bedroom with a sigh and gently put the child down in his bed.

He covered the small form with a dark green blanket and kissed the other's forehead fondly, smiling slightly. Then, closing the door quietly behind him, he sauntered to his room and locked the door.

Alone, Arthur collapsed on the bed, and no more different than a teenager, let his tears flow again, pillow stiffing any sound that dared escape him.

He won't let Alasdair in. God knows what he would do to him.

Alasdair banged on the locked door with a gloved fist.

"Arthur, open th' door" He said calmly, leaning his forehead on the wood. He knew the English Nation would be in there, no doubt crying, and Alasdair felt that hated yet familiar sense of guilt deep deep down.

He'd never admit to having it though.

"N-no." The Briton shouted as menacingly as he could, hoping that the other would take the hint and leave him alone in his misery. Seeing that it wasn't doing the trick, Arthur took a deep breath and wiped his tears away. He stood up and approached the door, standing as straight as he could. He was a strong, proud nation. This didn't dent him at all.

N-not the least...

Opening the door, the Englishman narrowed his eyes and frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. "What do you want?"

Alasdair tilted his head when Arthur stepped out, spotting the tell tale signs of tears on his cheeks.

He sighed, reaching forwards and pulling Arthur into his chest in a hug,

"Stupit" He said, folding him close.

Arthur froze, not expecting... _that._

"I-I beg your pardon?" He questioned, voice muffled slightly by the fabric pushed against his face. A couple of moments later, though, he relaxed, wrapping his arms around the other.

He was his older brother, after all.

Alasdair gently moved from side to side, rocking his brother. He moved his thumb in little circle patterns on the back of Arthur's neck and then kissed the top of his head.

"Stupit," He repeated. "I telt ye tae remove the bullets masel'"

"But... I forgot, and you looked like- oh, bugger it."

Arthur smiled, clutching tighter to his brother's form. He should have known that Alasdair wouldn't actually hurt him fatally on propose. Or should he?

"After all, why would you want to hurt your own property?" He muttered, pulling away.

Alasdair smirked and leaned down close to Arthur's face.

"Exactly" He murmured, kissing Arthur's nose.

This was how it always ended. No matter what they did to each other, no matter how far they went. They came back at the end and held the other.

Apologising in their own screwed up way.

Fionn nodded from where he was standing, watching them from behind the wall.

They were ridiculous. But he'd continue to watch them even though he could no longer claim kinship with them, because they needed it.

Because they would, until the end of the world, continue to love to hurt and hurt to love.


End file.
